"Faith," said Mrs. Somers, leaning back and stopping her as she passed; "do you know why I let Sophy keep you running about so?"
"I like to do it, Mrs. Somers."
"Well that's not the reason. You ought to sit up at the head of the table for your skill in arranging flowers. I didn't know it was in you, child."
And Mrs. Somers bent closer to Faith to take the breath of the roses, but softly for she loved flowers herself.
Faith bore it jealously, for she was afraid of another invading hand; and blushing at the praise she could not disclaim ran away as soon as she was free. But as the tide of supper-time began to ebb, the doctor arrested Faith in her running about and saying that his sister had had no supper yet and wanted company, led her to the place his aunt had spoken of, a clear space at one end of the table, where the doctor also discovered he had taken no supper. The rest of the party sat at ease, or began to scatter again about the grounds. A new attraction was appearing there, in the shape of Chinese lanterns, which the servants and others were attaching in great numbers to the trees and shrubbery. The sun went down, the shades of evening were fast gathering. At last Miss Harrison rose.
"When the lamps are lit, Miss Derrick," said the doctor as they followed her example, "there is a particular effect which I will have the pleasure of shewing you—if you will allow me."
"Dr. Harrison, how do you do!" said a voice that sounded like—perhaps as much like the bark of a red squirrel as anything; and a little figure, with everything faded but her ribbands, and everything full but her cheeks, looked up with a pair of good, kind, honest eyes into the doctor's face. "It makes a body feel young—or old—I don't know which, to see you again," she said. "Though indeed I know just how old you are, without looking into the Bible. Not but that's a good place to look, for various things. And there's a great variety of things there,—if a body had time to read 'em all, which I haven't. I used to read like a scribe when I was young—till my eyes got bad; but a body can't do much without eyes, especially when they have to sew all the time, as I do. I always did think it was one indemnification for being a man, that a body wouldn't have to sew. Nor do much of anything else—for 'man works from sun to sun, but a woman's work is never done.' And I always think the work after sundown comes hardest—it does to me, because my eyes are so bad.—Well, Miss Cilly! don't your dress fit!"—It may be proper to mention that this last sentence was a little undertone.
"You have given me, Miss Bezac," said the doctor, "what I have wanted all my life until now—an indemnification for being a man!"
"Is that the way they talk over in France?" said Miss Bezac—"well, it don't make a body want to go there, there's that about it. And there always is something about everything. And I've something to say to you, Faith, so don't you run away. You've done running enough for one day, besides."
Faith was in no danger of running away. For while Miss Bezac was running off her sentences, a little low voice at Faith's side said "Ma'am!"—by way of modestly drawing her attention to Johnny Fax and his red ribband.